[identity profile] justwolf.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] rain_of_gold
Fic: Ask Me No Questions
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Irene/Molly
Notes: For [livejournal.com profile] katekintail who prompted a character gets spanked every time he/she has an accident. Luckily, the character loves getting spanked so starts playfully having accidents on purpose.
Warnings: D/s dynamic, BDSM, wetting and desperation
This is a bit rough!Sorry for any errors.


“Really, darling, again?” Molly's mother had said, when she came traipsing in from the garden in wet jeans.

But Molly was only six at the time, and she was quickly forgiven. No one would have guessed that the accident wasn't entirely unintentional.


At 19, sometimes Molly drank as much water as she could, and lay in bed, gently fingering the soft folds of her labia. She would get lost in sensation: the chaste touches on her skin, the deep pressure inside her.

She would stand up, naked, when it all got too much, and kid herself she was going to run to the bathroom. As soon as she stood, the pressure would become overwhelming, and she'd let the urine flow down her legs.

It shouldn't make her want to come. It always did.


Molly looked at her hands, because it was scary to look at his face. She was twenty-two and too old to be nervous around her very first boyfriend. “B—but you asked if I had any secret fantasies, and I told you!”

He was getting dressed, socks first. It was cold in her student flat. “I just wasn't expecting that, that's all.”

He'd said he liked the idea of licking whipped cream off her; she said sometimes she liked the feeling of wetting her underwear.

His sounded really boring.

Still, it seemed that perhaps it was better not to tell boyfriends everything.


“What's your name?” Molly said, bending over the hand on the table in front of her.


“And Sherlock really sent you here to talk to me?” Molly looked up, put the knife down. Her blue latex gloves stuck to her skin.

The woman's face was beautifully made up. There was an intensity in her gaze that Molly usually associated with Sherlock, though in his case, it was never directed at her.


“Why? Sherlock doesn't care about what I have to say.” Though if Sherlock hadn't sent her here, Molly wasn't sure how Irene would have got past security at Bart's.

Irene leant her elbows on the table opposite Molly. She rested her chin in one hand. “That's his loss.”


Molly was scared. She was scared of a lot of things, but especially of being here, right now. She clutched her bag to her chest. It was a brown leather satchel filled with pencils and lab notes and a cereal bar and a spare pair of knickers in case she got her period and a packet of tissues, and it did not fit at all into this room, but holding it tight made her feel better.

“Your house is really nice,” she said. She was rather awed. She'd never known anyone who lived in Belgravia, let alone had a whole house all to themselves.

“Yes,” Irene said. “I like it. Will you put your bag down, darling? And take off your coat?”

It was phrased as a request, but it didn't sound like a request. She put her things down. Irene gestured that she sit next to her on the sofa, which was too close for Molly to be comfortable. She was very aware of her baggy green trousers and her too-loose orange top and how they weren't very new and they didn't match and Irene looked so perfect it was hard to breathe. And she was wearing white. Molly could never wear white, she got it dirty in ten minutes.

“I, um. I looked you up,” Molly said. “I never... I mean, I've looked at porn. On the Internet before. But I've never, um. Known anyone from a website like that. Not that there... I mean, I don't judge. I mean, I was interested.”

“Of course you were.” Irene reached across and touched Molly's cheek. Her fingers were cool and soft, her nail-varnish smooth and perfect. Molly didn't know whether to flinch away or lean into the touch.

“I don't. I don't have a lot of money,” Molly said. “I mean, Bart's pays, but it doesn't pay as much as...”

“Shh,” Irene said. “We're English, we don't talk about money.” She tucked a strand of Molly's hair behind her ear. “Look at you, so wound up.”

“I'm nervous.”

“You're scared,” Irene said. “Don't worry, I'm in charge for the next two hours. And we're just going to have a little chat.”

“But, I can't...”

“Stop worrying about money. You know Sherlock Holmes, that's very important to me.”

Molly flinched. She couldn't talk to Irene about Sherlock. Why did Irene want to know about Sherlock? What if Irene was like Jim?

Irene tilted Molly's face towards her. They were eye to eye. Irene's gaze was so steady. “Right now I want to hear about you. Tell me your secrets.”

“I don't... I don't have any secrets you'd find interesting.”

Irene said, “I like the anticipation best. I like when I'm looking down at someone spread out in front of me, when I know I'm going to mark their skin.” Her phone chirped. She put it carefully on the table, not reading the message. Molly could feel her warmth next to her. She looked down at her knees in their shabby green trousers.

“Now your turn,” Irene said.

Molly chewed her lips. She could only think of what she had done two weeks ago—the wet heat through her pyjamas, the spreading stain. How she didn't know whether she wanted someone to comfort her and fuck her and tell her it made them hot, too, or whether she wanted to be held down and punished.

Sometimes words came too easily to Molly. She would start talking and would know she was admitting too much, but she couldn't stop the flow of speech. “I don't know if I want to be punished, or...” she began, and knew she was starting in the wrong place, but Irene's eyes were on her, and she looked fascinated, and Molly was powerless to make herself stop.


Much later, Irene said, “I can't believe you've never kissed a woman before. What a boring life you've lead.”

Her fingers traced over Molly's neck.

They'd barely touched, but Molly felt entirely exposed, as though she was lying naked on the expensive sofa in Irene's sitting room.

“I will now,” Molly said, swallowing hard. “I will kiss a woman.” She could feel her pulse in her neck.

“Yes,” Irene said. “You will.” She circled Molly's wrists with her hands, but she didn't lean forward to break the distance between them. Molly did.

Afterwards, Molly touched her damp lips with her hand. She felt weak-kneed, trembly, as though they had done far more than just kiss and talk. “Good girl,” Irene said then. “Lovely girl,” and that was what made Molly feel damp all over, what made her weak with pleasure. Four simple words shaped by Irene's lips.


The first time Irene spanked her, Molly howled. She lay face-down on the bed, hands clasped under her chest, body tense. She did not expect it to hurt. She did not expect it to feel violent. She expected it to make her feel pleasantly wicked and light and happy.

Instead, it hurt. Instead, it made her burrow her face into the pillow. Instead, it made her cry.

“Count for me, darling,” Irene said, in that gentle, even voice.

Molly reached eight before she was sobbing. She got to eleven before she couldn't keep shaping words. She cried into the pillow feeling sore and exposed and alone.

Then she felt Irene's lips on her skin, Irene's tender mouth kissing her shoulder-blades and the small of her back and her smarting bottom. “You feel delicious,” Irene said.

She rubbed a soothing cream into Molly's skin and said, “Such a good girl. Such a clever girl,” and Molly whimpered at the endearments. She had not expected to turn to jelly like this. She hadn't really thought it would hurt.

But, later, when Irene said they should discuss what they'd done, and she asked Molly if she would like to be spanked again, Molly surprised herself by saying, “Oh. Yes. God yes.”


After two more visits, Molly would have done anything in the world to please Irene.

I'm not very good at being autonomous, Molly thought, blinking up wordlessly at Irene. Irene had gagged her for the first time, so she couldn't speak, but she didn't want to, anyway. Words were always so difficult. The plastic in her mouth was hard and comforting at the same time, and she liked that the burden of communication had been lifted from her.

“Is it hard, being so good all the time?” Irene whispered into her ear. “Don't you sometimes want to be badly behaved?”


In her own little flat, Molly admired the bruises on her bottom and lower black. Her creamy skin darkened to blue and green. When she pressed on the bruises, a sweet ache went through her, and she felt intimately connected to Irene.

Behave badly, Irene had said.

Molly cupped her little belly with her hand, finding her bladder beneath the skin. She imagined the thin tissue, stretched and stretching. She felt sparks of arousal in her vulva.

Be bad.

Nothing felt more deliciously wicked than this.

Molly let go in her green knickers The liquid spread over her crotch, and wormed its way down her legs, so hot and so wrong. It pooled around her feet and between her toes. It was like a lover's fingers tracing over her thighs.

Next time she saw Irene, she said, “I did something bad.”

Irene was sitting at the edge of the bed, entirely naked, looking as composed as if she was fully clothed. Molly was naked too, but she felt awkward about it. She was lighting a series of tea-candles, because Irene had told her to.

“I doubt it,” Irene said.

“I did,” Molly said. “I. Um. I wet myself. In my pants.”

Irene sat straighter. “Did you? How did it feel?”

She'd told Irene about how it made her feel, of course. The very first time they'd spoken about all of this. Irene had put her hand on Molly's thigh and said, “How interesting.”

“Warm. Good. Naughty,” Molly said now.

“I'm sure it did. Come here, Molly.”

Molly came, and knelt easily at Irene's feet. Irene played with her hair, and then grabbed a chunk close to Molly's scalp, and tugged. “If you do that here, I'll spank you.”

Molly couldn't interpret that as anything other than an invitation.


She kept her fluids up all day and by six she had to pee almost every half hour. She drank a bottle of water before she left work, and then regretted it once she was on the tube. Her bladder felt full and hot and she had no wish to wet herself on the packed train. She imagined the dampness trickling out of her, the other commuters trying to get away from her wet and shameful body.

She balled her hands into fists and rocked on her heels and waited. There was sweat under her armpits and her hair was a bit greasy and her palms were damp and she would always, always feel childish and inadequate next to Irene, but right now she felt it acutely.

By the time she was at Irene's door, she couldn't stand still at all. Kate answered. She always looked at Molly like Molly was beneath contempt. “Irene will be with you momentarily,” she said.

Molly paced around the living room. She stood by the window, biting the side of her fingers. If she wet here, she'd only get the floor damp. That would be OK. And her clothes. She hadn't brought a change of clothes.

And what if Irene was disgusted? What if she didn't like her any more once she'd done it?

Molly had to go so badly. She chewed her lip. She could go to the loo, she knew where it was.

But she'd tried so hard to be ready for this. She'd wanted this.

She spread her thighs slightly. That made it worse. She felt so vulnerable, like such a child. Her eyes were damp, her throat dry.

Her bladder muscles contracted. She swayed, digging her knees together, pressing her hand into her crotch. She felt dampness in her knickers, and against the palm of her hand.

Run, she thought. Run to the loo. You'll make it, it'll be fine.

She took a shaky step. She felt another trickle against her hand. Oh, God, she was a child. Irene was going to hate her.

She couldn't run. She'd wet if she moved. She pressed her hand in hard, whimpering.

Irene came in at just the moment when a hot, wet steam began trickling down Molly's leg. She must have timed it, Molly thought distantly. She stared at the ground, unable to stop it. She drew her hand away from her crotch. It was glistening with wetness.

Molly saw the puddle grow around her feet. No point stopping now. Irene had seen, Irene knew. She could stop now she'd taken the pressure off, but she didn't try. She let it go, she let everything go. She kept her head ducked down, a tear trickled over her face. She'd never felt more vulnerable.

Irene's fingers were cool on her flushed cheek. She titled Molly's head upwards, so they were eye to eye. “Poor darling,” Irene said. “You're such a child. I will have to punish you, you know.”


Irene gave her a loose yellow blouse to wear, and matching linen trousers. Molly felt entirely unlike herself. Her bum was pleasantly sore, and her thighs stung. Kate had brought in tea.

Molly sat next to Irene on the sofa, and Irene pulled her down so Molly's head was in her lap. The puddle on the floor by the window had already been cleaned away.

Irene only poured tea for herself.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Irene said, sipping.

Molly nodded. She didn't feel she knew how to speak yet.

Irene stroked her cheek. “All of it? I think some of it hurt.”

“You like it when I cry,” Molly said.

Irene smiled. “Sometimes. Does that upset you, darling?”

Molly shook her head. It should, but it didn't.

“My good girl.” Irene rested the tea cup on Molly's shoulder. It burned, but only slightly. She followed the curve of Molly's ear with one finger.

“W—why do you do this for me?” Molly said.

Irene raised the cup to her lips. Molly could hear her swallow. “There are many reasons,” Irene said. “Some you don't want to know. The one you want to hear is that I do this because I find you interesting. Because I like you. And that is true too, even if it's not the only reason.”

Molly nodded. “OK.”

“That's all? You're not worried about my motives?” Irene laughed. “Yes, I do like you.”

Molly nuzzled further into Irene's lap. Irene caressed her cheek.


The next time she did it, she didn't make herself hold for so long first.

She drank tea with Irene and Irene took her up to her bedroom and tied her up, hands behind her back, kneeling, hands tied to her bound ankles. She was on the bed, and it was surprisingly comfortable.

Irene said, “I always feel so relaxed when I have a nice girl all tied up.” She moved briskly around the room, sending emails on her phone, and then going to her cupboard and rearranging her clothes, and then going through some files on her desk. “I'd gag you, but I don't have to do that with you, do I? You like being quiet.”

Molly did like being quiet. She stayed silent and watched Irene. After a while she shut her eyes and just listened. It was very soothing.

The need to pee built inside her, a slow burning. Her knees began to ache too, even on the bed, and her hands. The pains were small, easy to ignore. She opened her eyes again. Irene's fingers were flicking over her phone, but then she looked up and met Molly's gaze.

Molly squirmed. Irene smiled.

Molly didn't know how long Irene left her there. When she was untied, her bladder was aching inside her. She slid off the bed and stood on the hardwood floor. She was still wearing her pants and bra, but nothing else. The floor was cold under her feet. She stood, shifting from leg to leg. Irene wasn't looking at her.

It took her a moment. She had to convince herself. It was so bad., and it felt wrong.

Then she was wetting, a warm heat spreading through her crotch and down her thighs.

Irene looked up from the phone when she heard the patter of liquid against the floor. She put the phone on her table, and unzipped her dress. It fastened under her arm. She pulled it off over her head and hung it on the back of the chair. Underneath, she was wearing a matching black bra and pants. Molly watched her, unable to stop the urine trickling out of her, unable to do anything but stare and let go.

Then Irene came over to her. Molly felt the last trickle die away. She felt the sticky warmth on her legs and under her feet.

“Don't you have any control at all?” Irene hissed. She grabbed Molly's hair, and tugged. Molly twisted with the grip. Irene tugged her downwards until she was kneeling in the puddle of cooling urine. Her knickers were soaked, worming their way into her vulva, stuck between the crack of her ass. She felt tears starting. Tears came so easily.

“Lie down,” Irene said. “Right there, on your front.”

Molly lay. The pool of urine extended from her belly to her knees. She felt hot and dirty.

“I can't touch you like this. I took my dress off so you wouldn't get it filthy, but I still can't touch you.”

There was silence. Irene moved away. Molly squeezed her eyes shut. She heard a rustling. Then Irene traced the leather crop over Molly's back.

She'd cropped Molly before, several times, and Molly had learnt to enjoy the sting, but now she was wet and sticky and afraid, and she whimpered and pressed her face into her arm.

Irene swatted her ass. “Don't move unless I tell you to move.”

Molly bit at her own arm and shut her eyes as tightly as she could and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Her body seemed to get more and more tense, until she wasn't sure it could take any more tension. And yet, she wasn't ready at all when Irene hit her for the first time.

Irene didn't tell her to count this time. She just hit her. It was violent. It was painful. It was being hit. Molly lay in her urine and cried and cried and let herself be hit.

By the fifth or sixth time Irene hit Molly's thighs, Molly didn't feel like she existed any more. Molly Hopper, bundle of neuroses and accidents, had never been. She was just a thing on the floor, a needy, whimpering creature, she was only pain and heat and the hard boards and the sound of leather on skin.

It shouldn't have felt like freedom.

It did.


It took her a long time to stop crying.

“You can get up now,” Irene said.

Molly raised her head. She was shivering very slightly. Her thighs burnt. The floor was cold and sticky underneath her, and her pants clung to her ass.

“Kate is running you a bath,” Irene said.

Molly sniffled. She rubbed her face with her hand, and then realised her hand stank of piss. Irene was dressed again. She was sitting on the bed, using her phone, as though nothing had happened.

“Go and get clean,” Irene said.

The bath was half-full and very hot. Molly ran some cold and let it fill up a bit more. She took off her knickers. They were soaked, and she didn't know what to do with them, so she put them in the bin. She took her bra off, too, and hung it on the back of the door. There were no towels, and no dressing-gown. She didn't know what she'd do when she got out of the bath.

Maybe she'd never get out.

She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. She felt small and alone. Maybe Irene really did hate her this time.

The water lapped around her. She sniffled and rubbed her eyes.

Irene came in with a pink fluffy towel and a silk dressing-gown. She set them both on the closed lid of the toilet, and sat on the edge of the bath.

She cupped Molly's cheek in her hand. “Cheer up,” she said. “You're still my good girl.”

“Am I?”

Irene kissed her forehead. “Yes. Now wash up, darling, and we'll have a cuddle before you go home.”
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